


From Beyond

by angeredthoughts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugging, M/M, Pre-Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeredthoughts/pseuds/angeredthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was exhausting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Beyond

John rubbed his eyes tiredly. He looked around his new flat for a moment before setting his book down and climbing to his feet. Grabbing his cane, he hobbled out of the lounge towards his bedroom. It was quiet and he didn’t like it. It was depressing, still. He was doing better, of course, but not completely. A piece of him shattered when Sherlock had slammed into the pavement. He paused and closed his eyes, swallowing against the bile that threatened to rise. Shaking his head, he moved and stripped down to his briefs. Letting out a small sigh, he crawled into his bed and flopped onto his side. He stared silently at the empty pillow beside him.

He had thought they were on their way to a great relationship. They had begun to get closer and every now and then he’d coax Sherlock into sleeping; often by pinning him under his weight until he fell asleep. He smiled sadly as he remembered slipping some food into his hand and watching as Sherlock ate it, gazing at the clues he had. But it had been for nothing, he supposed. He’d still taken that final step. He’d still ripped everything away. He’d left John standing there, alone and terrified as his friend’s blood seeped into the pavement beneath his broken body.

Shivering, he pulled the covers over him, tucking them tighter around his body. He should’ve never let those thoughts enter his head, but now that they were there he knew he’d have nightmares. He’d wake up and look around frantically, finding nothing to soothe his terror. The smell of Sherlock’s soap would fill his nose and sink into his skin while he shivered. With a resigned sigh, he closed his eyes. He let his body slowly relax and hoped he at least got a couple hours before they got really bad.

As he fell asleep, he missed the malicious eyes that stared at him from the darkest corner. He missed the sliver of light that glinted off a gun before it fired. He wasn’t aware of the dart that pierced through his neck and forced him into a darker sleep then he imagined. He was gone from the world… for now.

* * *

Screaming, he jerked awake. A knife slid from his side and he panted in pain. His arms were tied behind his back and chained to a wall. He looked down very confused. His legs were forced apart by a spreader. He was still in his briefs. It was a mild relief. He lifted his head to see a woman before him, her gaze dark and unforgiving. He had never seen her before in his life but he had seen that look before. It was unforgivable grief. It was the same look that showed on his face whenever he thought about Sherlock. There was more to hers though; there was a promise of revenge in her eyes; a hunger for someone to suffer as she suffered.

“Doctor Watson; welcome back.”

She had a pleasant voice but it was dark, filled with anger. He shivered as she moved away. He looked down at the wound in his side and blinked sluggishly at it. There were still drugs in his system, he knew that, but he wondered why it had hurt so much. It wasn’t even bleeding anymore. He lifted his head and looked at her. She was glaring at him. He wondered who she was.

“I know we’ve never met, so allow me to introduce myself,” she purred, moving towards him, “I was Moriatry’s lover. He killed himself to prevent Sherlock from living,” she explained.

“W…what do you mean?” he asked. Everything felt sluggish, as if was dripping from him.

“You really don’t know?” she laughed, “Sherlock was getting too close, so he had to be stopped. He was ruined, remember?”

How was he supposed to forget? It was one thing for people to individually judge him, but they questioned everything because of a man with an obsession. Sherlock’s passion was ruined and everyone had scorned him. He hadn’t seemed to care, worrying more about the case, but it wasn’t hard to miss how he lost a bit of the spark that kept him going. Even now there were people who mocked him. He never said anything anymore, tired of fighting them. It had been a long three years and now it seemed as though something new was happening.

“He was told to kill himself. Naturally he would’ve refused, but my Moriarty… He was brilliant. He knew how to make him do what he wanted. A sniper for you, for his little friends and he was willing to do anything to protect you,” she smiled serenely, as if she wasn’t tearing his heart apart and filling him with guilt. Her eyes pinned him in place, “But Sherlock was clever, wasn’t he? I don’t know what he said, but my Moriarty had to take his life to get what he wanted done. And now! Now all the others!”

Confusion filled him but she had nothing more to say. He cringed back as she picked up a gun and aimed it at him. He was already bleeding heavily and now she wanted to shoot him. He didn’t understand why she was suddenly coming after him or what she had meant. He saw the glee in her eyes; something in him sang though. He missed his best friend something painfully fierce. It was a knife that never stopped digging into his heart. Closing his eyes, he waited for the bullet.

It surprised him then when the first bullet did not pierce his heart. It punched through his leg and he screamed in pain. His eyes popped open in surprise and he trembled from the sudden pain. He looked up at her, seeing her hungry look and bit his tongue. No more screams for her; he wouldn’t give her anything more. The second bullet went through his knee, centimetres from the first. He cringed but he didn’t scream. It seemed to aggravate her and she fired two more into his leg. The blood was gushing out now and he was dizzy. He sagged forward. Seconds after he lost the ability to hold up his head, the hot barrel was pressed against his neck. This terrified him. There was more then a chance he’d survive if she miss fired, but he would probably never move again. He tensed and waited…

But there was another gun shot. It echoed off the walls and she screamed, the gun falling away from his neck. He fought the black in his vision and lifted his head as a second gunshot echoed. It silenced her screams and familiar hands pressed against his face. He blinked blearily, confused. He knew those eyes. He knew that look. He’d seen that horror. At the hands of Moriarty, when the bomb was strapped to his chest. He knew.

“Sherlock…?”

* * *

Blinking slowly, he stared at the white ceiling and inhaled the sterile clean air. He blinked more as he tried to understand what had happened before jolting upright. He cried out as he jerked his leg before familiar fingers curled around his arm and eased him back into his pillows. John’s eyes darted up the arm to the oh so familiar face and his heart seized in his chest.

“B…but how?”

Sherlock looked down before he spoke. He explained the entire plan, even how he’d survived. John’s heart hammered painfully in his chest as he learned of the deceit from Molly and Mycroft. He listened and learned how Sherlock had hunted down every last sniper and threat to his friends and had come back. He’d gone back to 221B and found the dart. It had taken him time to track him down, especially as he’d had to deal with the idiots at the station but they’d come. They’d been in time to save his life.

John was silent as he told his story and he stared quietly at him. He turned his eyes away and looked up at the ceiling. He was filled with agony. It hurt to think of any of this. Yet he had no choice. He had to think of it. All the pain he’d suffered, his heart breaking and the loneliness. It had all been for nothing… but at the same time he knew his friend. He knew he would’ve thought of a thousand possibilities before he’d settled on one option. It may not have made much sense to him but it was Sherlock’s way. He turned his gaze back to his best friend and nodded slowly, “When I am able to move though… I will hit you,” he declared.

A brilliant smile took over Sherlock’s face and he reached forward, grasping his hand, “I would expect nothing less.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://angeredthoughts.tumblr.com) me?


End file.
